


Gladiators

by colonel_bastard



Series: A Symphony of Scars [3]
Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Community: disney_kink, Kidnapping, M/M, Molestation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Basil is in handcuffs and Fidget has a peg leg, and as far as Ratigan’s concerned, that’s a level playing field.</i>
</p><p>While Basil wrestles with Fidget, Ratigan wrestles with some unhealthy urges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gladiators

**Author's Note:**

> Ever wonder how Fidget got that torn ear? Written for a prompter at [disney_kink](disney-kink.livejournal.com) who wanted Ratigan to have captured Basil in order to have his fun with him, and, I quote, "FIDGET'S THERE TO HELP." 
> 
> I tried to think of a game that Ratigan would want to play that needed a third player, and then it occurred to me— _Mortal Kombat!_ Or, well, I guess _Gladiators_ is a classier title... You get the idea. 
> 
> Set after the events of [Do No Harm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3326171).

-

-

-

Basil is in handcuffs and Fidget has a peg leg, and as far as Ratigan’s concerned, that’s a level playing field. Although the core of the evening is to be an exercise in pure savagery, that doesn’t mean that there can’t also be a modicum of gentlemanly conduct— and if that doesn’t sum up the crux of Ratigan’s nature, then nothing else can. Even as he planned this whole outrageous indulgence he was in deep quarrel with himself, his refined affects unable to fully restrain his unrefined essence. Ultimately they seemed to reach a truce and he rounded up a crew to go knock on Basil’s door. 

The break-in was quick and relatively painless. The landlady screamed fit to wake the dead, but Basil himself was simply too surprised that they’d come for him at home to put up much of a fight. As a rule, Ratigan doesn’t usually accompany his crew on such a mundane errand as breaking and entering, but this was a special occasion and he waited just out of reach of the window, affording himself a perfect view into the interior as the glass shattered. Basil had been fussing with that blasted chemistry set, but as the door kicked in and the windows fell to pieces, he turned to face them. For one beautiful split-second, Ratigan caught a glimpse of complete and utter shock in his eyes. Then Basil put his head down and started swinging. 

It’s so rare to be able to genuinely surprise Basil these days. Ratigan cherishes the opportunity. 

After sending everyone else back to the hideout, Ratigan had suggested to Fidget that perhaps they could take a shortcut through the sewers. The bat, always eager to please, agreed without hesitation. 

Now they walk side by side through the musty tunnels. Ratigan currently has an unconscious Basil slung over his shoulder. Between the detective’s slender frame and the villain’s impressive strength, he hardly notices the burden, and even if he did, he has other things to work on right now. 

“My, how peaceful our dear friend Basil looks when he’s asleep,” he says absently. “Wouldn’t you agree, Fidget?”

The bat rolls his ugly yellow eyes in the expected direction. He’s just about face to face with the detective, swinging as he is over Ratigan’s back, and he gets a nasty smile as he studies their captive. 

“Looks good,” he mumbles, the very words that put this scheme into Ratigan’s head in the first place. “Looks nice.”

“That’s right, he does look nice,” Ratigan leads him like a dog on a chain. “Very soft, too.”

“Soft?” Fidget’s eyes light up— he’s never thought of that one before. “Looks soft.” 

“Quite soft,” the rat assures him.

He lets that thought marinate in Fidget’s twisted little mind. Out of everyone Ratigan has ever known, this pathetic creature is the absolute easiest to read the intentions of. He wears his thoughts on his face, and his expression slides from awed to skeptical to curious to— there it is— hungry. All of Fidget’s thought processes end in hunger. Ratigan is counting on it. 

“Hey, Boss,” the bat finally says, his breathing coming fast. “Can I— can I touch?”

“Well,” Ratigan stretches the word tantalizingly. 

“Please, Boss, please,” Fidget tugs greedily at the hem of his jacket. 

“I suppose,” Ratigan shrugs with feigned carelessness. “That would be all right.” 

He gently lays Basil down on the dank pavement underfoot. They’ve been walking alongside a murky flow of water— it’s a filthy parody of a natural stream, and the concrete is a poor substitute for a grassy bank, but the overall effect is incredibly satisfying and appropriate, and Ratigan steps back into the shadows to watch the game unfold. 

Fidget gingerly approaches his prey. He has seen Basil fight before, and he wants to be sure that the detective is definitely unconscious before he gets within striking distance. Eventually, inevitably, hunger overrules caution, and he steps close enough to lay a hand against the side of Basil’s head. He strokes him, almost like a child stroking a pet, but the intensity builds and soon he’s pawing at him, tearing at his shirt, raking filthy nails through short, sandy fur. 

That does the trick. Basil’s eyes flutter halfway open, then fly saucer-wide as he comes to his senses. How the situation must fall rapidly into place in his marvelous little brain— first, the bat, then, the sewer, and finally as he starts to move, the handcuffs joining his wrists behind his back. It only takes a second for him to process and then he’s rolling and kicking, knocking his assailant off of him long enough to pull himself up to his knees.

Before he can stand, Fidget pounces on him from behind, wrapping one wing around his throat and the other around his belly, dragging him backwards in a beastly embrace. The bat’s hips jerk in shallow, savage thrusts as he rubs himself against his victim. Basil snarls in disgust and brings his elbows up sharply into Fidget’s sternum, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. 

The unmistakable sound of it— bones driving against bones, elbows cracking against ribcage— sends a shiver bolting along Ratigan’s spine. He presses against the cold, curved wall of the tunnel, forcing himself backwards to prevent himself from racing forwards. His fingertips itch, the claws desperate to emerge, to rip into either of the combatants before him. He wants to see blood. He wants it now. 

“Bite him!” he commands, not caring which one obeys. 

Basil has just managed to scramble to his feet, and when he spots Ratigan lurking in the shadows, his eyes go wide and then narrow in the space of a heartbeat, first in surprise and then in furious understanding. No accusations of fiendishness or knavery this time— Basil simply charges at him. Ratigan’s muscles coil in preparation, ready to launch into combat, but Fidget suddenly flings himself at the detective, driving a shoulder into the middle of his back, bringing them both to the ground in a heap. 

Breathing hard, Ratigan draws a shaking hand up to cover his heart. Of course. Yes. That’s what he wanted. He wanted Fidget to be the one to get his hands dirty, allowing his master to preserve the image of unflappable elegance. He has already slipped with Basil once before— taking him in an alley like the lowest of the low— and he will not let himself slip again. He can’t. His reputation is at stake. 

For a moment, the fighters are just a tangle of kicking legs and flailing wings. Then Fidget manages to gain the upper hand, pinning Basil facedown against the pavement, pressing down on his back with all his weight. Like the stupid beast he is, he goes right back to pumping his hips— Ratigan has seen dogs behave this way, rutting senselessly, mindlessly, incapable of anything beyond their most base instincts. He wishes more than anything that he wanted to turn up his nose at such disgusting behavior, instead of staring like he does now, his jaw working steadily as he chews his tongue. The way Basil’s eyes roll wildly, his teeth bared in rage, his temper scraped raw by yet another intrusion upon his person— it’s magnificent. 

In a truly inspired move, Basil fumbles blindly behind him with his chained hands, feeling his way along Fidget’s belly and down between his legs, where he grabs tight and wrenches as hard as he can. The bat emits a horrific squeal and jumps off, allowing Basil to roll onto his back and lash out with a series of kicks that all miss their mark as Fidget retreats and circles around to gain his ground. 

All these years that Ratigan has worked to hide what he really is— and it can all boil away in an instant. He can feel his pulse accelerating, his pupils dilating, his nostrils flared and sucking in short, shaking breaths. One fist is driven down against his groin to combat the heat and pressure building there. 

The bat charges Basil head-on, dodges the kick aimed at his gut, and shoves the detective back down to the ground. He straddles his chest, lowering his head so that he can rake his tongue up the side of his prisoner’s face. It’s a critical error and it’s going to cost him— Basil arches up to meet him, his jaws open wide, and he closes his sharp white teeth onto Fidget’s right ear. Panicking, the bat throws himself backwards, and with a sickening wet sound the ear tears open. 

Something dark and primal stirs in Ratigan, a lust that he lives in denial of every day, a craving for carnage that has its roots in his sordid, savage ancestry. _Yes, yes,_ he thinks, and he thrills to the knowledge that it was Basil who drew first blood. 

_Ratigan was much younger and his reputation much milder when he sat with a friend in a dark corner booth at the tavern. This particular companion was fixated on the idea that a rat is a rat, and that a creature of the sewers thinks only of violence. Ratigan was intent on proving him wrong, but against his will, rage crawled up through his veins and strangled his senses._

_“How often do you think about it?” the companion slurred, and the words left his mouth with the scent of gin. “Every day?”_

_“Every moment,” Ratigan snarled, as he lunged across the table and snapped his neck._

While the bat reels and recovers, Basil rolls and stretches and though his joints are surely screaming in agony, he somehow slips the chain of the handcuffs down around his backside. Once he’s managed that it’s quick work to pull his legs through the loop of his arms and in a flash he’s on his feet with his hands in front of him. 

Just as quickly, Fidget’s teeth close around Basil’s forearm, and as flesh and fur are torn under the assault, the detective shouts and curses and finally loses his words entirely, bellowing incoherently until he manages to yank his limb free. The bat gives him a slash across the face for his trouble, and though Fidget’s nails are bitten almost to the quick, he swings with such force that he tears open a series of cuts around Basil’s eye and across his muzzle. 

And see, that’s the whole problem, the whole reason they’re in this mess in the first place. Ratigan couldn’t help himself. Basil is just so pretty when he bleeds. Some have their cocaine and others have their morphine— Ratigan’s drug is the sight of blood breaking hot and red to the surface of that particular skin. He’s tried to get the same enjoyment from the pain of others, but he’s beginning to realize that only Basil will do. 

Back in the fray, Basil knits his fingers together and swings his doubled fists right at corner of Fidget’s jaw. The blow sends the bat staggering backwards, and he ends up tumbling into the dirty stream that has served as their backdrop. 

The fight could end there. The fight _should_ end there, but to Ratigan’s immeasurable delight, Basil follows his opponent down into the water. Deftly, he loops his arms around him from behind, then draws the chain of the handcuffs up and back against Fidget’s throat, strangling him. 

A few uncomfortable seconds pass. Fidget kicks and struggles but Basil’s grip is inexorable. Ratigan creeps forward, hardly believing what he sees, as the beloved detective of Baker Street leans backwards, lifting his victim’s feet right out of the water. Ratigan studies his face, contorted in fury, and he sees murder in his eyes. Basil is really going to kill him. 

Ratigan has never been more aroused in his life. 

It takes almost all of his strength to separate the fighters, and he discards Fidget by the waterside, giving him a swift kick in the ribs to make sure he’s still alive. The bat coughs feebly in response. Good. Now he can focus on Basil, swinging and kicking in his grip. 

Ratigan is holding him up by the handcuffs chain, and even dangling in such a helpless position, Basil is fire. He writhes and twists like flame, his eyes blazing, his face streaked with blood. Lust stabs Ratigan’s brain like a railroad spike, cutting off all logic and reason, pouring through his body in a molten surge. He staggers, drives Basil back against the wall, his fine white gloves straining to contain his claws. 

Incandescent with anger, Basil spits at him, and the gesture is so uncivilized, so feral, that Ratigan lunges in and kisses him. Basil’s skull cracks back against the cement as he tries to lean away, but Ratigan just compensates by leaning even closer. It’s the first time they’ve kissed and it can only last a moment— he can already feel the detective’s lips pulling back, his teeth bared to bite, and the villain jerks his head back before any damage can be done. The faint taste of tobacco and copper lingers on his mouth, as the evening’s pipe and the night’s bloodshed mingle in a perfect cocktail. 

“Filthy, disgusting,” Basil hisses, his ears pressed flat back. “ _Sewer rat._ ”

It’s just enough to bring Ratigan back to his senses, and before he can do anything else reckless, he rams Basil against the wall hard enough to knock him unconscious. Once he’s limp, once the fire goes out of his eyes and they roll over to nothingness— only then can Ratigan get his snarling, surging heart under control. 

\- - -

The next thing Basil hears is Mrs. Judson bawling his name. She’s shaking him hysterically by the shoulders and the physical contact scares him so badly that he lashes out on instinct, forcing her to jump back to avoid a blow to the face. 

“Mr. Basil!” she sobs. “Mr. Basil, you’re alive!”

He clutches his chest, notices his mangled arm, splutters, gasps, and tries to anchor himself back in reality. The nightmare in the sewers almost seems like just that— a nightmare, a fever dream that flickers away even as he chases after it. He awoke in violence and fell back into darkness in violence, and were it not for the wounds he would think he had imagined it. 

“I’ve sent for the surgeon,” the poor landlady interjects upon his dark thoughts. “He should be here soon.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he argues weakly, automatically. 

“But— the note—”

Quick as a flash, Basil snatches up the piece of paper she offers to him. There’s blood dripping into his eye and he scrubs it furiously away. The note is written, of course, in an elegant script and on beautiful stationery. As Basil reads it, he can feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck, as though the words were being whispered into his ear. 

_My dear Basil,_

_Please use the money enclosed to pay for a doctor. I want you to have those wounds properly taken care of. Wouldn’t want to risk any unsightly marks._

_Remember— no one is allowed to scar you but me._

_Yours fondly,  
R._

 

 

 

________end.


End file.
